


The Pomegranate

by Carmarthen



Category: Phantom of the Opera
Genre: F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-30
Updated: 2010-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:48:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hades and Persephone at the opera (or: Christine grows up).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pomegranate

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly based on Leroux (thus Erik's elliptical speech), but with influences from the musical. It's such a weird conglomerate fandom.

I held out his ring, my hand shaking, and slowly, excrutiatingly slowly, Erik took it. I could have left then, left with nothing but a twinge of regret in my heart, and gone to live happily with Raoul for the rest of my days.

But then Erik caught at my hand, a soft, ineffectual motion of desperation, and his trembling fingers entwined with mine. A sob caught in my throat. How could I leave him like this, so broken? How could I return to Raoul, dear, sweet, practical Raoul, with my new knowledge of Erik's world? I had been a girl, with a girl's loves and a girl's fears, but now I was a woman.

"Christine," Erik whispered, and I, half-mesmerized, covered his hand with mine, imprisoning him. "I love you..."

His voice broke then, and I found myself weeping with him as I flung my arms about his shoulders. He stiffened, then awkwardly put his arms around me, as gently as if I were some wild creature who would bolt from him.

And perhaps I was, I thought with a touch of hysteria. Perhaps I was. It was cruel to give him false hope. I drew back, set my hands on either side of his face, ignoring how he flinched away from my touch, and I stood on tiptoes and brought his forehead to my lips. "Poor Erik," I said.

He shook his head, clasped my hands tightly. "No," he said, tears still choking his voice. "I am the happiest man in the world tonight." He smiled, a pitiful, twisted attempt that somehow managed to be as touching as the smile of a happy child. "Go to your Vicomte," he said softly, releasing me with reluctance. "Please, go now. I am only a man, after all."

"No," I said, for I knew then the choice I had to make. "I cannot-" -here I started laughing softly-"I cannot return to Raoul now. Let me stay with you." I was beyond blushing, beyond tears. I felt as pale as porcelain and as strong as steel. I was Persephone after tasting the pomegranate, her eyes opened for the first time to the gifts of the night.

Erik stared at me, cat's eyes wide and luminous. I felt detached; I could look upon him without fear, without judgement. He was not his face; he had never been his face. Those eyes burned through me, weighed my heart and soul to test if I were playing some cruel jest. I shivered; no mortal man should have eyes like that. They almost seemed to glow in the darkness, phosphoresce like a cat's eyes. But Erik-he had never been quite mortal. There was something uncanny about him, beyond his voice and his face. I thought him an angel once, but who is to say what other beings there might be beyond mortal knowing? He is Erik. That is what matters.

"Christine...if you jest..." The pain in his voice was raw and agonizing. I longed to take away the cruelties of the world, but I could do no more than go to him and embrace him again.

"No--no, Erik. I would not be so cruel!" I said.

He reached up to brush at my cheek, delicate as a moth's wing, and I realized I was crying again. I had not known I had so many tears in me. Erik seemed to draw inward again. "No, Christine. You are...an angel, but I cannot allow you to do this." He was nearly shaking now, but he set me from him again. "I...do not want your pity," he rasped, as if the words came hard over gravel.

I stood there, cold and alone, and did not know what to say.

"Raoul will be--" He broke off and buried his face in his hands, turning away. "He will be--"

I interrupted him, suddenly angry. "Raoul is my friend. He was always my friend, and I loved him once as more. Because he is my friend, he will understand. He must understand. Erik, I don't want to marry Raoul!"

He froze, but did not turn around. I stepped towards him; it seemed to take an eternity, but I laid my palms against his back and said, "I will marry you. Freely and of my own desiring." I was blushing now; some sane voice in my mind railed at me, asking how I could be so bold. I was no better than the worst of the ballet rats now. I quelled the voice firmly; no, I could do nothing else, for his sake and for mine.

Erik was still under my hands.

* * *

He cries after we make love, and I can do nothing but hold him in silence. It is like embracing a skeleton. My poor Erik. The world has been cruel to him, and he cruel in return. I cannot begin to make amends. All I can do is make his last days sweeter.

He is dying, you know. He was dying before the Angel of Music ever came to a naive little Swedish chorus girl. He grows thinner, weaker every month. It makes me wonder what he was like in his prime, for he still posesses unnatural strength for one so frail-seeming.

His voice only grows more beautiful, more ethereal. It is not a voice of this world anymore, and whether it is a curse from Hell or a blessing from Heaven, only he can say.

Sometimes we fight, raging at each other in the candlelit dimness, and he throws things at the walls. He has never laid a hand on me in anger, not after the night he forced me into unwilling womanhood with that fateful choice.

I chose the only way I could. I chose with my heart and my soul and he pushed me away. I could forgive that, but not the choice, and I would not let him make my choice meaningless.

So I went back. I cannot marry Raoul now. I had loved him as a child, but I am no longer a child. Perhaps I loved Erik as well. I am nearly certain I love him now, if not precisely as a wife should love her husband. I find myself grateful that he does not have long to live. We would kill each other in the end, I think, with our tempestuous emotions.

He is always contrite after we argue, afraid to touch me, and it is always I who go to him and embrace Death again. I have become stronger, rarefied, like the phoenix who passes through the fire and is reborn. His face is nothing, his body is nothing; he is a voice and a heart. He burns, with torment and passion and love.

He is my Hades and I his Persephone. I knew what I chose when I took the pomegranate, and I meet my fate with eyes wide open to the darkness until the day I shall see the light again.


End file.
